


Time Of Dying

by Sunwarmed_Ash_tree_and_the_dreaming_Stag



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Drug Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual two chapters of smut, F/M, M/M, Mental Illness, Misunderstandings, Multiple Suicide Attempts, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sad Sherlock, The lying detective, Universe Alteration, Violence, love delarations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunwarmed_Ash_tree_and_the_dreaming_Stag/pseuds/Sunwarmed_Ash_tree_and_the_dreaming_Stag
Summary: “Taking your own life? Taking it from who? Once it’s over it’s not you who will miss it. Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.” He told Faith, tossing the handgun into the water.Too bad Sherlock is bad at listening to his own advice.Starts around the The Lying Detective but rewritten sadder, and more Johnlock than Warstan.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

_Sherlock’s terrible at pinpointing emotions. Especially unnecessary ones tied to romantic notions. He’s always seen them as weaknesses, reserved for ordinary people too weak and let them control their lives. That’s why he was better, because he didn't understand them, or care to understand them enough to let them control him. But ever since John Watson entered his life, emotions and dealings with them had been an almost regular occurrence in their daily life. And even with several years of practice, he was rubbish at handling them._

Sherlock laid on the cold floor of the morgue, nerve endings screaming in agony after John’s unyielding assault. The drugs still pumping in his veins made him feel hazy and warm, but maybe that was just the pool of blood currently collecting under his cheek.

Everything hurt. His bones, his muscles, his nerves, his heart. An excruciating combination of withdrawal and emotional agony. He hated them, the _emotions_. They were an almost daily occurrence now and he was sick of them. Withdrawal was more familiar, and unfortunately for Sherlock, comfortingly so. After all he had been an on and off drug user since he was 23. But the emotions? The stupid, pesky, complex little chemical reactions that he lost the will to fight back were somehow worse.

Worse than the cold sweats. Worse than the incapacitating migraines. Worse than waking up in the middle of a filthy alley wearing nothing but a threadbare jumper in the middle of December. 

Emotions. He absolutely fucking _despised_ them. 


	2. Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starts at the morgue scene in TLD (The Lying Detective)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the One X album by Three Days Grace while I wrote this, in case it wasn't painfully obvious
> 
> TW: Suicide attempt/Canonical murder attempt  
> Pov switches  
> *updated/reworded 2/18/21

"S top it! Stop it now!” John screamed, slapping Sherlock hard across the face. The first hit was meant as a warning slap, to get Sherlock to focus on him and off of Culverton. But once he started, he just- couldn’t stop. “Is this a game? A bloody game!” Another punch, “Because I won’t play another Sherlock!” A kick to the ribs.

He heard Sherlock’s teeth crack under the force of his fist. Felt the slickness on his knuckles as he made him bleed. Saw the spray of blood stain the pristine white floor of the morgue and grow with each swift kick to Sherlock’s ribcage. The anger he felt was all encompassing. Mary’s death from a bullet meant for one Sherlock Holmes, being tricked into another one of Sherlock’s crazy drug hallucinations, the utter exhaustion he felt day to day, all fueled John’s strikes. Which were still going, even as 4 nurses tried to pull him off and Culverton pleaded for mercy on Sherlock. 

“Please, no violence. Leave him be!”

To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock spoke in John’s defense. 

“No, it’s ok. Let him do what he wants,” He pleaded, as if John was the one with busted lips and blood stained teeth, “he's entitled, I killed his wife.” 

John’s jaw clenched in time with his fists. He let security grab hold of him now. His gaze towards Sherlock was hard, but his voice breaking gave him away. 

“Yes, you did.” 

Sherlock lay motionless in the hospital room. A steady beeping coming from the EKG machine signaled he was still alive. On the outside at least. The combination of heroine, cocaine, methamphetamines, dehydration, exhaustion, and malnourishment were each individually taking their toll on his small frame. With how much they found in Sherlocks system, a drug induced coma was suggested as a way to get him through the worst of the side effects without killing him.

Sherlock, lost in his own head on the best days, had him forgetting to eat on many occasions. John’s absence and the continuation of drugs made it worse. The stimulant cocktail made it so he never needed sleep. Never needed to stop working. So he didn’t. He never stopped analyzing, connecting dots, finding patterns. Taking case after case after case. But he kept it moderated, or- rather he thought he had. He actually didn’t even know what day it was. How many days had or been since John-

There was a small voice in his head that said ‘Mary just might be right,’ but that voice was currently being outshouted by another that screamed, he will _never_ forgive you. Not until you’re dead too.

* * *

“I have a question for you.” 

Sherlock blinked in the overly lit room. He didn't even notice the portly mans attendance until he started speaking. 

“Why are you here? It’s like you walked right into my den and laid down in front of me. Why?”

“You know why I’m here.” Sherlock didn’t really want to play this game right now. Not after waking up 17 or so hours later in the middle of another round of drug sweats. But he knew Culverton's MO, and more importantly what he needed to do. 

“Yes but I want to hear you say it. Please? Say it for me.” 

He had to fight to roll his eyes. What are the odds, that he’d find not one but two serial killers to direct his suicide. “I want you to kill me.” 

“Kill you? Well, that would send me right to prison then wouldn’t it? It would be hard to assume probable cause once I’m through with you.”

Well now this was just getting tedious. Must he spell everything out? “Not if you just increase the dosage. Four or five times. The toxic shock should shut me down within the hour.” 

“Everyone would assume a fault. Or, in your current state, maybe they’d assume you asked me to do it.”

Sherlock internally sighed. “Yes.”

Culverton nodded, impressed. “You’re quite good at this.”

_Obviously_. “I’ve been planning it for a long time.” 

The fat man tisked. “Too bad you chose the wrong side. We could have done wonders together.” 

Sherlock watched him pace around the bed, eyes similar to a lions stalking its prey. Drawing out the inevitable for really no reason.

“Before we start,” he said, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, “tell me how you’re feeling.” 

Feeling? Ah yes, one of those irritating little emotions he was so fond of lately. May as well be honest, no reason to lie now. 

“I feel-  **scared** .” 

“You don’t want to die,” Culverton said. It wasn’t a question. 

“I didn’t say that.” Because he didn’t. 

“Alright. You don’t want to die, by me .” 

“...Yes.”

“And yet, you chose me. You sought me out. Drove yourself right into my path. Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Ah, couldn’t do it yourself, could you?”

**Shame** colored his cheeks. It was that partly, but more he couldn’t do it to whoever would have found him. Most likely, Mrs. Hudson. He couldn’t leave her with that lasting image. 

“No.” 

Culverton clapped his large hands together in amusement. 

“Well Mr. Holmes, I do believe we make an excellent pair! Maybe even better than you and your doctor.” 

**Heartache. Shame. Regret.** Sherlock tried to hide his wince, but Culverton caught it. 

“Ah. What he said, back in the morgue, it was true then. You did kill his wife.”

Sherlock wanted to say no. Technically, he didn't kill Mary, a bullet meant for him did. Or more accurately, Magnussen was the one who set the wheels of Mary’s mortality in motion so many months ago. But even all the logic in the world couldn’t convince his brain of it. Sherlock should have died that day. He baited Vivian in the aquarium, taunted her with his intelligence because he just didn't know when enough was enough. He had to be right, but more importantly, he had to show everyone else he was right. The shot was meant for him, not Mary. He should have died, not her. So yes, Sherlock did kill John’s wife. But he also killed the closest thing John had found to real happiness since returning from the war. Since Sherlock fell. In reality, he was responsible for two deaths. Mary’s, and John’s.

“Yes.” His stomach twisted.  **Guilt** . The emotion that led to his lapse in sobriety in the first place. 

_ You deserve to feel guilty. It’s your fault. _ It’s funny, the voice in his head was sounding more and more like John these days. 

“And now, you have nothing to live for. Solving puzzles isn't quite as fun without your sidekick.”

**Fury** . Sherlock clenched his jaw. “John was never a sidekick .”

“No? What was he then?” The twisted knowing smile on his face made him sick. 

“ _ Partner _ .”

“Partner, yes, But not in the way you wanted.”

He nearly choked on the open air.  **_Seen._ **

“You would do anything for him, even if it cost you everything, and he can barely stand to look at you. Because, when he does, all he sees is  _ her _ .”

Sherlock’s eyes closed to keep back the tears that were already brimming at the surface. When he opened them again, Culvertion was standing over him. 

“Well, you won't have to worry about it much longer Mr. Holmes. Lucky for you, I’m getting impatient.”

Sherlock’s heart stuttered in panic.  **_Fear_ ** . It was hammering so loud against his chest he knew Culverton could hear it. He smiled gleefully above him, fat gloved hands moving towards his face. 

“Take a big breath if you'd like.” Then those hands were covering his mouth and pinching his nose. Sherlock’s body flew into an instant frenzie. Fight or flight senses kicking in. He was no longer in control of what happened to his limbs, they acted purely on instinct, attempting to force the larger man off. They would fight to keep him alive even if he didn’t want it. His legs kicked to try and distance his body from his attackers, but it was no use, Culverton had the momentous advantage.

“Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage you know, you have to be careful,” Culverton started, “But if you're rich, famous and loved, it's amazing what people are prepared to ignore. And there's always someone desperate, practically begging to go missing, ready to  _ kill themselves _ but lacking the initiative to do it themselves, well that's where I come in. It's just nature, Mr. Holmes. A perfect symbiotic relationship.”

Sherlock could feel himself fading. His lungs were screaming for oxygen that would never come and his eyes felt like they were about to bulge out of his skull. His arms lacked any functional strength, he was no longer able to resist Culverton’s hands now. 

“Maintain eye contact, I like to watch it happen.”

His vision was tunneling, and the pounding in his ears was quieting. By his calculations, he had about 15 seconds before his heart gave out. 15 seconds until this short, tragic, empty life was over. 

14...

13...

12...

“And off, we, pop,” he heard above him, but he couldn't see. The blackness had completely taken over. The last sounds he would ever hear were the chuckles of a serial murderer, and the breaking of a door jam. 

A long, loud flatline tone filled the room. 


	3. I will not die, I will survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some John pov, continuation of the same TW/plot

The door swung open. It hit the wall with a hard smack and that’s when John saw him. Culverton. Standing over Sherlock’s bedside while the EKG flatlined. 

He pulled back, throwing his hands up in mock innocence. John didn't buy it for a second. He didn’t think, he just reacted. 

“What were you doing! Huh? WHAT WERE YOU DOING!” He shouted, grabbing the larger man by the back of the neck and slamming him into the closest wall. 

“He’s in distress! I was trying to help him!” He tried, but John knew a con artist when he saw one. _Hell, he fell for two._

The overpaid and utterly useless hospital security guard bounded into the room then, and John shoved Culverton into his path. 

“Restrain him, now!”

The flatline continued, and John forgot all about the useless man and looked to the bed, a very pale and lifeless looking version of his best friend laid upon it. 

“No, no no no. Sherlock. Sherlock don’t you dare,” he growled, jumping into action and starting CPR. He looked to the guard again in exasperation. “Don't just stand there you bloody idiot! Call for help!” 

The room emptied and the flatline grew louder. 

“Sherlock you utter _bastard_. Don’t you dare make me live without you again,” he threatened in a whisper, before giving two rescue breaths. 

Before he could start another round of compressions, there was a team of people flooding the room, pushing John out of the way to tend to Sherlock. The guard that had Culverton had not returned, and he was grateful. He wasn't sure he could make the hits stop once they started. 

He felt helpless, watching the young hospital staff tend to his best friend. _He was a doctor for Christ's sake, he should be the one saving Sherlock!_ But he didn't think he could get his hands to stop shaking or his mind to halt the panic attack that was creeping up under his collar. Sherlock was in better hands without his help. _For now at least._

When they tore open Sherlock’s gown to begin the pulses and John looked away. Black and blue bruises painted his ribcage.

 _He_ _did that to Sherlock_. It made him sick. 

“Clear!” 

Sherlock’s lifeless body jerked upwards in response. The flatline continued. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. 

John felt like he was falling. 

“Clear!”

Another jerk, more flatline.

 _What if Sherlock didn't pull out of this?_ Tears fell from John’s eyes. 

“Clear!”

A jerk, a pulse. 

_A-A pulse?_

John looked up to see the doctor watching the EKG, two fingers on Sherlock’s pulse point. 

“Sherlock!” John stood from his chair, stopping when a young nurse held up his hand. 

The silence seemed to stretch on for ages, but then, another heartbeat. Followed by another. And then two more. John’s legs gave out from under him and he collapsed back into the chair. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Dr. Watson?” The young nurse from before touched his shoulder and he flinched without meaning to. 

“I’m sorry, we are going to need to move him. But you can wait with him if you’d like.”

John sniffled and nodded, pulling himself up and following the staff to the next room. 

At least he was alive.


	4. Is this all a dream?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah Sherlock, you master deflector you  
> John’s onto you though

Sherlock was surprised, to say the least, when he woke up utterly surrounded by white. He had never put much faith in the notion of an afterlife, but he supposed anything was _possible_. He just didn't expect it to be so- monochromatic, cold, and sterile smelling. It was almost as if-

“Oh no,” he sighed, groaning and rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK! Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s hand froze midair. _That was John’s voice. Why was he here?_ Sherlock wasn’t ready to face him. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be. But In an instant, the older man was by his bedside, looking down at him with a mixture of concern and relief. 

“Have you been crying?” 

John laughed, sniffling before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Quite a bit yeah.”

_He was happy the smile touched his eyes. He seemed to have quite a few more wrinkles than he had before, how long had it been since he had seen John?_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

The happiness was replaced with a pointed anger that felt very familiar. 

“Why- WHY? I thought you were _dead_ Sherlock!” But there was pain in there too. Sherlock had been around John long enough to tell the difference. Sherlock didn’t do well with pained filled emotions, empathy never was one of his strong suits. He found it was easiest to just ignore and more forward. Especially with how unsettling this entire conversation has been so far. 

“What happened with Culverton?”

“I don’t know! I stopped caring about him once I knew you were alive!” John scoffed. 

Sherlock was taken aback by the utter lapse in judgement. “You- I appreciate your sentiment _Doctor_ but we can’t afford that luxury! He _will_ kill again! How could you just let him go! I had him!”

“You had him- Sherlock I watched him _suffocate_ you!” 

Sherlock ignored John. As he usually did when the older man let his emotions cloud his judgement. The game was all that mattered, obviously since his suicide didn’t take, and they were getting off track. Who knew how far Culverton had gotten in the time Sherlock had been dead. 

“Where’s your cane?” He asked, scanning the contents of the empty room. He just noticed it was a different one than the one he started in. 

“My cane?”

 _Did I stutter_ ? “Yes _John_ , your cane. I put a recording device in it because he only confesses to the dead! Now _where_ is it?”

John’s face changed, through too many emotions for Sherlock to keep track. Shock, bewilderment, and realization were among them. 

“You, you planned this? You _asked_ him to kill you? For a _case_ ? Have you _ABSOLUTELY_ LOST YOUR MIND?!”

Ah, and _there’s_ the **rage**. At least Sherlock understood this emotion. He supposed it was justified, and much more preferable to the truth. He had to make sure John never heard that recording. 

“John, please, try and think. If we don’t stop him now, he’ll just hurt someone else.”

John looked like he was about to say something else, but dropped it with a deep sigh. Sherlock still refused to look at his face. 

“It’s probably in the last room. I’ll go look for it.”

Sherlock nodded, waiting until John left before shouting, “Phone Scotland Yard when you find it will you?” after him. 

* * *

Lestrade sat in the room with Culverton and his lawyer, stopping the tape recording and rubbing his eyes with his hand. Exhaustion seeping deep into his bones like (cool metaphor here). John was behind the two way mirror, trying to process everything he had just heard. And Culverton? He was _smiling_ , boasting about the freeing nature of confession. 

John’s hands clenched at his sides as blood boiled hot under his collar. If he wasn't behind this glass, there would be nothing stopping him from punching the odious man’s lights out. His hand twitched again. He still might. 

He watched Lestrade stand and try to find his eyes in the glass. Or maybe he was just checking his face in the mirror. He looked about as wrung out as John felt. He nodded to the door and he swore. He was 100% certain he wasn't ready for the conversation about to follow. 

* * *

“You need to see him,” Was all Greg said when they settled into his office, both nursing a glass of amber liquid. John looked out the window and nodded. It was raining. It seemed to be raining quite a bit lately. 

There was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered, ‘If he hasn't already killed himself that is.’ He tried to silence it by shaking his head. 

“I know. I know. I just- can’t believe I didn’t see it.” 

Lestrade nodded, resting a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “None of us did mate.” 

Watson swallowed hard around the rest of his drink. It burned going down, as bitter as the voice in his head. 

_But_ _I should have_. 

* * *

When John returned to the hospital, Sherlock looked about the same, though his wrists were now bound down at his side and he was heavily sedated. John frowned at the medical implications of that. Sherlock had made another attempt at taking his own life, and if what he said on the tape was true, it was all his fault. It absolutely destroyed John to know he was the cause of Sherlock’s pain. 

He took a seat next to his heavily sedated friend and set his face in his hands. What was he going to say when Sherlock woke up? He didn't have a single clue. Everything still felt too raw, too fresh. He was afraid that if they talked before he had time to process, John would let his temper get the better of him. A flashback of what happened in the morgue came to mind, and the shame had him breaking down in the hospital chair. 

**Author's Note:**

> This will probs get updated as irregularly as all my other WIPS, sorry its how my brain works but I hope the content is enough to keep yall warm in the winter


End file.
